The Heart Queen

by Patricia Potter

  Janet looked out the window as the chaise drew near Braemoor.

  Unlike the grand manor home where she had grown up and the house in which she had lived after her marriage, Braemoor was a true tower house, a large circular stone edifice that was virtually unbreachable.

  Years ago, she had thought Braemoor stark by the standards of her own childhood home. It had also been ill kept. She remembered her first dismay at seeing it, then at meeting the man her father had considered a match for her. He’d been more distasteful. She’d even been frightened of him.

  And then she’d seen Neil Forbes in the background, dressed as simply as his cousin had been bedecked with finery. He had worn a simple linen shirt and plaid. His dark eyes had met hers and her heart had fluttered wildly. She had listened to the romantic ballads and had discounted the thought of love at first sight. Her mother had told her that love and respect were things that grew between man and woman.

  But in that moment at Braemoor, she knew her parents were wrong and the balladeers were right. The next few days had been magic, so sweet and pure that she still ached at the memories.

  “Is that it?” Rachel asked, interrupting her thoughts. “Is that where we are going?”

  “Aye, sweetling,” Janet said.

  “Do you think I can have a pony there?” Annabella asked.

  Janet remembered that she had promised them they could have a pony, mayhap even two. But that was before she knew that Braemoor was going to take over her life. “I do not know, love,” she said.

  She looked at the tower house as the chaise came to a stop. Memories crowded in on her. She had hoped never to see this house again, the house where her dreams—and hopes—had been shattered.

  Her thoughts were disrupted as Braemoor opened the door and his gaze, dark and enigmatic, met hers.

  He’d stayed away from the occupants of the carriage for much of the previous day. They had awakened at dawn, and despite an obviously painful leg, Braemoor had assisted in harnessing the horses and getting the chaise back on the road. He had remained on the drivers’ bench and she had only seen him when they had stopped to rest the horses and allow the lasses to get some exercise. They had stopped at an inn last night, but Braemoor had disappeared after seeing them to their rooms and ordering their supper.

  Braemoor had remained quiet and tight-lipped this morning when they left the inn. Only Annabella appeared to affect him as he lifted her this morning into the chaise. Her arms had gone around him and for a moment he hesitated before settling her inside.

  There had been raw hunger in his eyes, but it disappeared quickly. Why? What was it about a child that seemed to … disconcert him so? It was more, she thought, than simply unfamiliarity. He was good with Annabella. He had obviously enjoyed holding her that night in the carriage. But now he seemed to avoid her, to avoid all of them.

  And what would he do now that they were at Braemoor, a place he ruled absolutely?

  She reluctantly handed him the lasses, then urged Clara to descend next so the nursemaid could take Colin. Then Lucy. Braemoor gallantly held his hand out to each of them, easing them down. Then there was no one left but her. He held out his hand. For a moment, she thought about refusing it, then thought that would be childish. She took it, feeling the familiar jolt of awareness, and jerked it away quickly.

  He said nothing for a moment, then gave her that half smile that both irritated and intrigued her. “Braemoor is your home,” he said softly. “If you need anything, anything at all, just ask.”

  Her hands tightened in fists at her side. She did not want to feel what she was feeling. She did not want every sense to tingle when he touched her, or even looked at her. She tried to remember the desolation, the pain she felt years ago when he tore her heart to shreds. She had trusted him then. How could she possibly be fool enough to trust him again? “I doubt I will need anything,” she said tartly.

  “Then I will try to anticipate your desires,” he replied.

  “Anticipate then that I wish to return to Lochaene. With my children.”

  “You will,” he said.

  “When?”

  “I canna answer that, my lady.”

  “Or will not,” she amended. She turned away from him and took Colin from Clara. She wanted her son, and the lasses, close. Safe.

  “I will let you get reacquainted with Braemoor,” he said. “You know about the library. Use it as much as you like.”

  Annabella sidled up to him. “Do you have a pony?”

  He knelt and looked at her. “Nay,” he said. “But you will have one,” he said.

  Janet was stunned by his reply, by the casual way he’d made the promise. Or did he realize it was a promise? To a child, it would be. And he, she knew, was not very good at keeping promises.

  “That is … not necessary,” she said.

  “Yes it is. I uprooted them from everything familiar.”

  That was not exactly true. Lochaene may have been where they lived, but the familiar things were Samson and Delilah, Clara, Lucy, Colin and herself. Even during that hellish journey, she’d felt that the children were safer than they ever had been while their father lived. But she was not ready to say that to Neil.

  “We are tired,” she said. “And my daughters can use a bath.” So could she. They had been too tired last night and the lasses too cranky for a bath.

  “I will have it readied.” He hesitated, then said, “Trilby will be helping Lucy.”

  “I do not need anyone else,” she said.

  “It … would be … a kindness,” he said. “She was Rory’s wife’s maid. Bethia left … at the same time Rory died, and Trilby has been unhappy since. A lady’s maid is a long step up from a parlor maid, and there has been no lady …”

  Janet gazed up at him. “And that matters to you?”

  “Aye,” he said in a low voice.

  “Then we will make use of her,” she agreed.

  “My thanks,” he said simply.

  Blast the man for doing it again. She squinted up at him. He looked bland, indifferent, and yet it had not been an indifferent request.

  “How is your leg?” she asked, trying to change the subject.

  “Raw,” he admitted.

  “Will you give it some rest?”

  “Do you really care, madam?”

  She nearly melted under the warmth of his gaze. But then she had been deceived by it before. “Aye, I do not wish to take care of you forever.”

  “That blow is more wounding than the one struck by the bandit,” he replied dryly.

  “Is it?” she asked skeptically and turned toward the tower.

  He limped beside her. Kevin, she noticed, was unhitching the horses along with a slightly older man who had appeared from the stable. She did not recognize him, but then she had been at Braemoor only a short time years ago and much had happened in the meantime—including a war.

  And yet the sight of Braemoor stirred a storm of emotions in her. She had thought she could never return to a place that held such joy, then later such misery. How long could she stay in the shadow of both?

  Upon entering the tower house, she noticed it was far cleaner and neater than she had remembered.

  “It looks different,” she noted.

  “My cousin’s wife,” he said. “Bethia. She transformed Braemoor.”

  “What happened to her?” she asked. “I heard about your cousin’s death, that he must have killed the Black Knave, and that his wife disappeared.”

  Neil shrugged. “Some say she ran away with the Black Knave. Some say she died with him. I doubt if anyone will ever know.”

  “You liked her?”

  “Aye. She was a difficult person to dislike,” he said. “But she had been forced into the marriage with my cousin, and I knew she wasna happy. Still, she changed Braemoor for the better.”

  Janet tried to remember all she had heard. Her husband had not known she had once loved someone at Braemoor, and he and Marjorie had relished the gossip months ago.
The wife of a Forbes running off with a criminal and blackguard, an upstart inheriting an honorable name disgraced by a Jacobite woman.

  That Janet had been Jacobite had not quieted their talk at all, in fact they had seemed to relish talking about it in her presence. It showed the treachery of Jacobites, Marjorie had said.

  Janet shivered inside. She understood how that woman had felt. She had been bound, as had Janet, to a system that regarded women as little more than broodmares or a means to obtain money and land. They were all pawns. Mayhap Bethia had found her love. Mayhap Bethia had found a way out. She hoped so.

  Janet’s fists clenched. Mayhap she could find one, too.

  Will took a drink from the keg of ale Burke had liberated.

  “So he lives?”

  “Aye,” Burke said.

  “And the countess cared for him.”

  “Burke nodded.

  “Then she still cares for him.” He said it in a low voice.

  “Sir?”

  “Nothing,” he said, berating himself for speaking the words aloud. It had been a thought. He had not meant to put voice to it.

  “He has taken her to Braemoor,” Burke said.

  Will looked around the cold, bare cave where his band of refugees had taken shelter. Food was a constant problem. Their occasional banditry usually yielded small sums, not nearly enough to smuggle these people out of the country. One young lad had a constant cough. The children were thin.

  He also knew Cumberland planned an expedition to clean out these mountains. That would mean moving from one place to another.

  He had never meant to be guardian angel to a group of refugees, people in danger because of their family name. It was no matter they were children.

  “I think it is time to see whether Braemoor pays his debts or not,” he said.

  “And if he does not?”

  “Then he is a dead man,” Will said.

  “We should have killed him when we had a chance,” Burke muttered.

  “Never play all your cards,” Will said. “You might need that jack. Or king.”

  “’E is naught but Cumberland’s man,” Burke said. “’E will betray you.”

  Will laughed bitterly. “There is nothing to betray. Cumberland already knows there are … rebels in these hills.”

  “’E will never help you,” Burke said. “Them kind never do.”

  “If he does not,” Will said, “then mayhap the new widow will. In any event, I want you to take a message to Braemoor. Unfortunately I canna be taking this face anywhere near Braemoor.”

  Burke scowled.

  Will wished he had someone else to send. Burke was as good as any man in a fight. He was excellent at ferreting out information. He was no good at guile. They had found each other in the old woman’s hut. Burke, too, had been injured. He had served Robertson of Struan who had disappeared at Culloden. Burke did not know whether his clan chief was dead or had escaped. He only knew he’d been able to crawl away from the battlefield when, like Will, he had been thought dead. His one wish now was to get to France where he hoped to fight England in the new world.

  Will knew revenge was Burke’s sole goal. His own goal was not much, but his means would be far different. He meant to escape Scotland and somehow make a fortune. Only through enormous amounts of money could you inflict deadly harm. And he had his list of those on whom he wished to inflict harm.

  But first he had to get out of the country, and he would not go until he knew those with him could also go. That meant arranging passage on a ship. It meant the kind of money that only someone like Braemoor could get him.

  That fact had stayed his hand two weeks ago. That and the card. Murmurings about Braemoor. And the man himself. He had not begged for his life.

  Will admired courage. And he had remembered something long ago. Janet Leslie had once been enamored of Braemoor. He knew it had ended badly, which is why he had sent him to her. If the man lived, it would be a sign.

  And a debt owed.

  He intended on collecting.

  “You will go tomorrow,” he said, wishing that he could go. But his face was known and his scar far too distinctive. He had to depend on Burke. He could pray the man kept his temper reined.

  The room Janet had was far grander than the one she’d had as a girl. It was, according to the lass named Trilby, the same room occupied by the marchioness. “The marquis said you might like a bath, my lady?” Trilby said nervously.

  Lucy bristled. “Aye, she would,” she said, making it very clear as to who was responsible for Janet’s well-being.

  Trilby bobbed. “I will see to it and be back to show the others their rooms.”

  Lucy glared at Trilby as she slipped out the door.

  “You do not need someone else serving you, my lady,” she said, then clasped her fingers to her mouth as she realized what she had said.

  Janet sighed. “In truth, you are all I need, Lucy, but it would be a kindness.”

  “The manor is very nice,” Grace said, as if sensing some discord. She hated discord. “Where will we stay?”

  “Somewhere close, love,” Janet said. She had already decided that.

  Samson came over and started to chew on her slippers which were, unfortunately, stiffened with mud from several stops along the way this day. Janet had tried to clean them last evening at the inn but they had been ruined and she had not wanted to destroy yet another pair.

  She had changed her gown this morning, but it, too, was travel-stained, with mud clinging to the skirts, and had a distinct odor from where Colin had spit up. She knew her hair looked lank and plain and colorless and her eyes tired.

  Janet closed her eyes and sat down on the huge feather bed.

  Grace touched her hand. “Should I take Samson and Delilah out?” she asked.

  “Can I see the horses?” Rachel added.

  “Can I really have a pony?” Annabella chimed in.

  Colin broke into a loud wail.

  “Aye, aye, we will see about a pony, and yes, Colin, I will feed you,” she said, trying to answer all the questions at once.

  Grace and Rachel ran out the door, Grace clutching Delilah’s basket and Samson nipping at Rachel’s heels.

  “Clara, you go with them,” she said. “Lucy will help me with Colin.”

  “Aye,” Clara said. She hesitated, then uttered traitorous words. “I think the marquis means no ’arm.” It was a very long and profound statement for her. She was usually as quiet as her oldest charge, Grace.

  “The marquis has his own objectives,” she said, “and it is best to remember that.”

  Clara nodded.

  Trilby entered. “Water is being heated,” she said. “I can show ye yer daughters’ room,” she said. “It is down the hall. The marquis thought you would prefer that rather than the nursery upstairs. We have tried to make it verra comfortable.”

  Janet stared at her. “You knew we were coming?”

  “Aye. My lord sent word when ’e called away Jock.”

  How long had Braemoor planned this?

  Time enough, she thought bitterly, to handle the journey better.

  But her daughters were excited at being somewhere beyond Lochaene. And their troubles along the way were travails to her but adventures to them. Even Colin had survived quite well.

  In truth, she admitted to herself, so had she. Despite the mud and rain and cold, she had found she had a strength she did not know she had.

  And now she was ready to do battle with Braemoor. She was not going to bend to his will. Not now. Not ever.

  She would start with short rides, then expand them day by day. Before long, she hoped, no one would notice if she were gone six hours or more. And in that time, mayhap she could do what she must.

  Neil rested a day. He was impatient, but he knew enough about his wounds to know it was necessary. There was so much to do. And with Jock gone, he would have to do most of it himself.

  He had hoped that Janet might inquire about him, might eve
n pay him a visit, but the day passed without either. He had asked Torquil whether he had seen the countess, but he had said nay.

  There was no reason for it to be different. He imagined she was exploring the house with the lasses. They would be restless after so many hours in the close interior of the chaise. He dutifully partook of soup and bread and ale. Torquil had looked at his thigh and had stitched the edges, which had come loose.

  He would have much preferred Janet’s gentle hand, but he had vowed he would not force her to do anything more than she wished to do. It was just as well, in fact, that she wanted to stay away from him.

  He slept on and off. He was warm. Tired. He hurt nearly as much as when he was first shot. Or had he merely forgotten the intensity of pain? Finally dawn came, and with it renewed strength and energy.

  He rose, shaved and dressed. He wondered how Janet was settling in, whether her daughters had been down to the stable. A pony would be his first business and then a visit to the new properties where he hoped Braemoor’s tenants were building crofts.

  He went down to the large dining room.

  The three young lasses looked at him from the table. Clara was there with them. The countess was not.

  “I was feared you were dead,” Annabella said. “Like my father.”

  “Nay, little one. I think it would take more than one journey to kill me.”

  “Mama said you needed rest,” Rachel said. “I wanted to come to see you.”

  “Me, too,” Annabella said.

  Grace sat upright in her chair. “Mama said we could read your books.”

  “Aye.”

  “Our father never wanted us to have them. He said it would spoil us, like they spoiled … Mama.”

  He wished like hell that Campbell was still alive so he could kill him himself. It was not the first time he’d thought that, but the feeling was growing with fury inside him. Instead, he said mildly, “She is not spoiled at all, and reading is a fine thing.”

  For the first time since he had met her, Grace favored him with a smile. Its very rarity made it extraordinary. It lit a face that was usually plain. Or mayhap not plain. Just too somber to shine.

  She quickly bent over her plate as if embarrassed.

  “I read, too,” Annabella said, obviously displeased at not being the center of attention.